


Your mother should know

by OnlySkyAboveMe



Series: Time is made from honey slow and sweet [2]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Cake Shop AU, F/M, I love writing Alma, Maternal reflections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 09:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21455455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlySkyAboveMe/pseuds/OnlySkyAboveMe
Summary: Alma reflects on her love for her son... and finds out what he got up to last week!
Relationships: Scott Moir & Tessa Virtue, Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Series: Time is made from honey slow and sweet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546540
Comments: 20
Kudos: 130





	Your mother should know

**Author's Note:**

> Not what I was planning on writing these past two days, but here it is!!

Alma Moir loves her son. Loves him so much that she went into business with him. 

Scott’s early childhood was full of time spent together in the kitchen at home baking, either with her or her father. During school vacations, whilst his brothers were chasing around hockey rinks and basketball courts, he would insist on coming with her to the hotel, sitting quietly in the corner out of the way and watching the team of pastry chefs she led with rapt attention. As he got older some of the juniors would recruit him to be their sous chef; fetching utensils and ingredients, washing up, cleaning the baseboards of their stations. 

One day, when Scott was nine, one of the chefs burned his hand just before the start of a busy service. Their team was left understaffed as he took himself to the emergency room and in her desperation Alma located a spare chef’s hat and jacket for her small son and sat him atop the counter and taught him to make quenelles. For the whole length of the service he dutifully adorned each dessert with a perfect quenelle of cream, sorbet or ice cream, delicately topping it off with a mint leaf and a sprinkle of icing sugar. At the end of the shift the chefs pooled together and pressed $50 into his chilly hand and patted him on the back as Scott turned the red note over and over between his fingers with his mouth agape.

She never pushed Scott to follow her into this world, in many ways didn’t want him to work the crazy, antisocial hours constantly on his feet and bending over stainless steel surfaces. Thing is though, her boy had talent. He still does. He followed his dreams, left home young, got his education, and spent far too many years away from home than she would have liked. But, when he did return home, he was a mature man full of experience. He could have been the head pastry chef at any restaurant in the country, heck even in North America, but her boy came home and wanted to open a modest cake shop with her.

It was hard work, and took far more financial investment then they could have anticipated, but was it ever worth it. They’re their own bosses, they set their menus, their hours, their principles and values. The shop is everything Alma could have ever wanted for them both, seeing the joy on her son’s face as he helps them buy the most delicious cake mix, choose the perfect tin, collect the cakes of their dreams that he has beautifully crafted for them.

Alma Moir loves her son. She also loves Saturday mornings. 

There’s no need for her to set alarm, she slips quietly from her bed at 2am without waking her husband, even managing to press a kiss to his temple before she pulls on her clothes, grabs her coffee from the kitchen and silently backs her white Prius out of the driveway. The roads are interesting this time of day. In the winter they are eerily quiet, unless she finds herself behind a snow plough. In the summer the peace is sometimes disturbed by wandering revellers from nearby bars and clubs. 

She lets herself into the back door of the shop – the one that goes directly into the kitchen – and quickly deposits her bag and switches her streets for her chef’s jacket and pants. She turns the faucet on the hot tap (the water always takes a little while to warm up at the beginning of the day) before slipping through the door onto the shop floor, just to check everything is okay. She cocks her head in confusion for a moment, then backs into the kitchen once more. She turns off the tap and surveys her kitchen with her hands on her hips. 

She opens the fridge first, finding a tub of frosting on the wrong shelf, haphazardly thrown in with two zested lemons dumped on top of it. Her eyes narrow further when she notices the raspberry that’s squished on the floor, visible only when the fridge door is open, hidden when it is shut. When she turns back around she spots a smudge of raspberry juice on the marble counter, and one of the stools is definitely not where she left it tucked in last night. 

She sighs.

Alma Moir loves her son. But she loves Saturday mornings because they are hers alone. 

Scott knows that she makes cinnamon buns, flakey croissants and chocolate-rippled brioche to sell at the local farmers markets on Saturdays. Scott knows that she gets in crazy early to tend to the complex doughs and give them the love and attention they need. Scott knows that she needs her kitchen in order to do this. And Scott knows that’s why he’s banned from the place after she cleans it on a Friday.

She wipes down the surfaces all over again (really not that much of an issue, she would have done it anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing), ties her apron and puts on her hat. She loads Ricky (a name Scott downright refuses to use), their huge stand mixer, with the brioche ingredients and sets him going; the old boy thunking and whirring a haphazard melody as she sets herself up ready to cut the perfectly laminated croissant dough she made yesterday.

What Scott doesn’t know is that she does all this to the music of Hall and Oates, the duo blaring loudly over the bluetooth speaker above the sink. She knows that her son would be mortified by both her choice of music and the way she shimmies her hips as she weighs, kneads, cuts and rolls her dough, singing loudly and relishing the fact that no one is listening.

Alma Moir loves her son. Even though he’s a terrible liar.

“Hi Ma, you okay?” he greets her as he walks into the kitchen at 7:45 on Monday morning. She’s already been here since 4:30; ten dozen chocolate cupcakes and 20 sponge layers cooling in the industrial racks on the other side of the room. Now she’s separating eggs for royal icing and macarons, setting the yolks aside for making ice cream, a new venture they’re working towards in order to eliminate waste and set themselves apart from other businesses in town.

She’d been planning on recipe testing later with the over-ripe raspberries...

She finishes cracking the two dozen eggs and joins Scott at the handwashing sink, noticing that he smells like vanilla body wash and has a quiet little smile on his face. She says nothing, but keeps an eye on him as he goes through his paperwork and sketches for their custom cakes this week. They work quietly together for another hour, each occupied with their own tasks in preparation for the shop opening at nine.

“Did you come in here after I left on Friday?” she asks, trying to sound casual rather than accusatory.

“Only to get the laundry,” says Scott, not looking at her, his eyes darting around the room instead.

Alma shakes her head,  _ he’s always been the worst liar _ .

“Okay,” she says.  _ She just can’t help but tease _ . “In that case I think there might be a raspberry thief on the loose.”

Scott chokes on his own saliva. “What?” he wheezes out.

“Yeah,” she says, voice hushed and serious. “When I came in on Saturday morning there was a crushed raspberry on the floor by the fridge.” She takes great delight in watching him gulp, eyes wide. “And come look at this.” She beckons him with a crook of her finger and he follows her nervously onto the shop floor.

She leads him over to the door, points at the pink handprint on the frame, then looks at him. His face is a picture! She gives him a moment to recover himself and unlocks the door, switching the sign around to declare that they are open.

“Please don’t be mad,” he says. She raises an eyebrow, sternly, though she’s still messing with him.

“I’m not mad,” she responds, voice level.

“This is my shop too you know,” he says, a soft defensiveness to his tone which is endearing only because he still sounds slightly terrified. “I can do what I want in it.” He marches back towards the register and retrieves the bottle of cleaning spray and some of the paper towels that are stored beneath it, then strides back and begins cleaning the handprint off the frame, though not before pausing and allowing a small smile to pull at his lips.

“Aside from making a mess of the kitchen, did you and Tessa have fun? Was she happy with the cake?” she asks nonchalantly.

Scott drops the bottle and it rolls halfway across the room. With a sigh he turns to her, face anxious until he sees the smug smile on her lips, at which point he huffs out a breath and nods his head.

Alma cocks her head at his expression and softens immediately; a weight she had no idea was on her shoulders suddenly lifting. Scott looks utterly happy, like a contentment has settled in his bones and is swimming in his bloodstream. She’s seen this look before in her other sons, she knows this look. Scott seems to have drifted into his own thoughts, smirking to himself at a memory and biting his lip.

Alma feels the sudden urge to interrupt that thought.

“Should I be glad that I disinfected my kitchen before I started baking on Saturday, Scott?” she asks. 

“Oh my god, Ma!” Scott’s eyes widen comically before he turns his back to her in his embarrassment and covers his face with his hands, but she can see the beet-red blush on his neck and ears anyway. “No… We… Gah, I’m going to get coffee…” He grabs some change from the tip jar and turns to the door but freezes as it opens, the bell above ringing through the silence of the shop, a familiar brunette in a smart black dress and pink check blazer walking through it.

Alma Moir loves her son. Because Scott wears his heart on his sleeve… and his face.

“I brought you coffee,” says Tessa, holding up a cardboard tray holding three large Tim’s cups. “You left… I, I mean,” she trips over her words as she spots her, and Alma attempts not to laugh. “I know you have to be in so early in the mornings. I thought it was the least I could do after all you did for me last week.”

Tess walks past Scott (smothering a smile at his spot-on goldfish impression) and towards her, holding the tray out so she can take one of the cups. “They’re just black, I’m afraid,” Tessa explains. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, and I figured you had cream and sugar here anyway?”

“Thank you, Tessa, that’s very kind of you. Isn’t that kind of her, Scott?” she says pointedly. Scott’s head snaps to them and he nods. They watch as he gives himself a little shake, closes the shop door and walks over to them, then he confidently wraps an arm around Tessa’s waist and pulls her to him, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Thanks, babe,” Scott whispers (not quietly enough) in her ear, at which point Alma steps away and busies herself straightening some of the packets on the shelves. “Will I see you later?”

“I hope so,” Tessa hums back.

“Okay,” breathes Scott. “Well, I hope you have a good day at work…”

“Wait, I want to place an order,” Tessa interrupts.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” says Scott, coming around to behind the register to pull the pad of order forms from the drawer below. He clicks his pen and poises it on the paper. “What can we do for you here at Moir’s Cake Shop?” he says, all businesslike, making Tessa giggle softly and Alma’s heart warm further.

“May I order three dozen cupcakes for Friday morning, please? We’ve been working a huge case lately, and the whole office deserves a treat.”

“Yep, we can do that for you,” says Scott, writing everything down carefully. “Any specific flavours? Any dietary requirements?”

“A mix of flavours is great, whatever you’re making really. If you could do three gluten free and three vegan that would be amazing.”

“Of course, no trouble. You want to pay now?” he asks. Tessa nods. Alma pulls out her phone and adds Tessa’s order to the planner and order spreadsheet, checking their inventory list for the ingredients they will need for the half dozen specialty cupcakes.

“I finally got around to checking my messages this morning,” she hears Tessa say under her breath to him with a wiggle of her eyebrows. 

_ Well, that’s too much information. _

“Everyone in my family has texted me about the cake; apparently they cannot get it out of their heads,” she explains, leaning closer to Scott and running a finger up his arm.

_ Guys, I’m right here!  _ Alma yells in her head.

“And when I mentioned that you do cake mix they dispatched me to buy some for them.”

Scott rests his chin in his hand and looks at her with affection. “What flavours would you like?” he asks with a small smirk.

“Let’s go with two vanilla and two chocolate for now. I can always come back if they want more,” she says under her breath, leaning her face closer to him.

Alma whips around to grab the cake mix from the shelf and hastily plonks it on the counter, causing Tessa and Scott to jump apart, Scott wiping his mouth and fooling no one about what just happened. 

He rings up Tessa’s order and purchases, and asks if she needs a bag, tripping over his words as he glances up at Alma.

“No it’s fine, I have a tote in here somewhere,” says Tessa, digging in her handbag before producing a natural cotton bag with something printed on it and hands it to him. Alma spots his nose wrinkle a little as he unfolds it, side-eyeing Tessa as she puts her pin in the machine, with a shake of his head he loads the cake mix into it and hands it back over to her.

Tessa thanks them both, confirms the collection time for Friday morning and leaves with a wave that Scott returns, a look of dopey affection having returned to his face. As she pulls the door open Alma gets a look at the text printed on Tessa’s tote.

** _Hallin’ Oats_ **

Alma Moir loves her son. But maybe she might love Tessa even more?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you C and T for the beta and ideas bouncing, you guys truly are the best!


End file.
